


Just about midnight

by Skyepilot



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Drinking, Eating, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Holidays, Romance, Secrets, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26294905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: Lt. Elliott convinces Benoit to visit Marta over the holidays.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	Just about midnight

“ _I live in a house full of secrets_ ,” Elliot says to him, taking a sip of his coffee. “That's what she said.”

Benoit turns contemplative at this dramatic turn in the conversation. That he _did_ anticipate. That he _did_ open the door to by asking.

“Like I said, Clue House. The mystery has been solved, but there's still all the reminders everywhere. The funky notes and hidden messages. _Secret passages_ ,” Elliot adds, mock-eerily.

“All that taxidermy. And _puppets_ ,” Benoit replies after a moment, with a distasteful grimace. “Gives me the jitters.” A pause. “And she's there, alone, without her dear mother and sister?”

“She sent them to visit family for the holidays now that her mom's status is sorted out,” Elliot says, looking around the diner, lowering his voice to sound even softer. “And either she can't leave, or doesn't want to...”

“Because of the sentencing being dragged on, no doubt,” Benoit says, with a sigh. “Ransom's legal _goon_ squad.”

“And no end in sight.” Elliot glances down at the donut in front of Benoit and then looks back up at him. “Are you going to eat that, or...?”

“Please, be my guest,” he says, pushing the diner plate towards the other man. “I lose my appetite when I'm thinking.”

“So, you don't eat,” Elliot says, bemused, and lifts up the donut and takes a solid bite.

“No doubt they intend to make her spend everything willed to her on legal fees.”

“You should go visit her,” Elliot suggests, chewing happily. “She asked about you.”

“I have been occupied with another case, as you know,” he says, a bit defensively. Oh, he knows why he feels guilty, but that's what he always does after every case. Moves on to dispel the aura of attraction lest reporters and press swoop in. And this town is ripe for the picking.

“It is hard to be alone during holidays,” Benoit says, placing his thumb against his chin and looking at the snow coming down outside the diner window.

“Speaking from experience?” Elliot asks, watching Benoit's blank stare in reply. “None of my business,” he says, dusting the sprinkles off his hands. “Just might be good since I heard the Thrombeys are gathering,” he says, noting Benoit's reaction, and lowering his voice again. “As for me and mine, we will be out-of-town.”

“You said she asked about me?” he interrogates gently, leaning forward, elbows on the table.

“Yeah she asked, how I was, you know,” he says with a gesture. “And then-” He pauses dramatically.

“ _And...Benoit?_ ”

“Hmm,” he answers Elliot, sitting back in his booth.

“Not Mr. Blanc,” Elliot smiles. “Not 'Detective'. _Benoit_.”

Elliot is asking for a favor. He has an acute nose for weaksauce and certainly doesn't dish it out.

There is only one option before him.

XXX

The ring at the front door is surprising, if not startling.

Who would be out in this kind of weather? The day before the long holiday begins?

She sets her book down near to her seat by the fire and walks towards the front door, tensing a little at the inner voice that wants her to believe, “Lawyer.” She looks out the window beside it before answering.

“Oh,” she says, realizing she was holding her breath. “ Mr. Blanc. Hi.”

“Ms. Cabrera,” he says politely, carrying what looks like a shopping bag under each arm. “I was just in the area, and-”

“Would you like to come in? It's cold,” she says, opening the door wider and helping him in as the bag under his left arm starts to slip.

She catches it and then sets it down on the floor, pushing the door shut behind him. The bag has what looks like a stack of takeout boxes inside.

“Is your car having problems?” she asks, looking out the window. “Or-”

“I'm sorry?” he asks, momentarily confused, dusting snow off his coat. “No, I came here with a purpose, I assure you.”

“It's just...unexpected,” she tells him, looking over his expression, fiddling with the sleeves of her sweater.

“Uninvited,” he admits, still trying to read her. “And I truly apologize, but I didn't have the house number. You changed it. Along with your mobile...”

“Yes, I did,” she interrupts, then shrugs. “I had to. We were getting all kinds of wacky calls.”

“I can imagine you have,” he says like it's an opening salvo so he can apologize for a number of things that have been on his mind since he last saw her.

“So, what's all of this about?” She has to be blunt. If he's here, it means that something has happened with the sentencing, or there is going to be another investigation of some kind.

“Dinner?” he asks with a hopeful expression. “It's Thai, but you seem like someone who might break with holiday tradition.”

“No stuffed turkeys or fruitcakes here,” she says with a smile, relief washing over her. “But this is a lot of food, and it's just me.”

“I decided to retain the _spirit_ of excess part. And...truthfully, I didn't know what you would like.”

“Good thing I eat leftovers,” she says, picking the bag back up and leading him to the kitchen. “Are you joining me?”

“If that is an invitation, then the answer is: _yes_.”

He sets the bag down on the kitchen island next to hers and she can hear the clink of a bottle inside.

“Something sparkling,” he tells her, lifting a bottle out, showing it to her. “To celebrate the holiday?”

“Should I get out the good china?” she asks him, opening the fridge to put the bottle in, watching him take off his coat, dressed in a suit underneath. “I'm afraid I'm under-dressed for such an occasion.”

“A fire and a cozy sweater go with everything.”

She smiles again and goes to the cabinet to get out the china.

XXX

“Do you really want to?” she asks excitedly, her smile even bigger now after her second glass of sparkling wine.

“Are you telling me you haven't thoroughly explored every nook and cranny of this old house?” he asks her from his spot on the floor, head propped up on an elbow.

She twists the crystal flute between her fingers and looks as the delicately carved surface dances in the firelight.

“I get about halfway in, and then I just get this feeling. Like...someone is _watching_ ,” she confesses.

“A Thrombey crouching in every corner?” he asks her half-serious, then regretting his joke immediately at her shuddering expression. “There _are_ eyes everywhere,” he reminds her looking around at the menagerie of art hanging on the nearby walls.

“And Harlan had this terrible sense of humor,” she adds. “He always played pranks and left little reminders of himself around for them to find.”

“Should we see what we can...uncover?” he replies, taking a drink and then raising up on an elbow to top off his glass.

She feels a little hot next to the fire in her sweater. Maybe it's just the wine? Then she decides to finish it all at once and sets the glass down next to the empty containers of food and delicate china.

“Let's go,” she says, sounding daring.

He starts to get up to follow and she offers him a hand, pulls him to his feet as he smooths down the front of his shirt with the tie tucked in neatly, tries not to spill his drink.

“Lead the way. _Detective_.”

Such a difference to the way this evening had started in her mind. He's welcome company right now, but she still doubts this was an accident.

They get to the hallway and he notices that parts of the house are more dimly lit than others, indicating which parts of it Marta favors when she's alone. It doesn't surprise. It's a lot of house.

“These passages don't have lighting in them,” she warns him, over her shoulder. “I hope you're not afraid of the dark... _Benoit_.”

“No, I, um, have a lighter,” he answers, quickly fishing out the object reserved for his cigars in the pocket of his pants and drawing it out, holding it up between them.

“Candle, yes!” she agrees, turning and heading back towards a piece of furniture in the hall and opening it, rifling through it, until she finds a milky taper inside.

Holding it out to him, he flicks the lighter on and waits until the flame licks the wick and light starts to cast dancing shadows across her flushed face. It must be the wine, he thinks.

She turns slowly back to a seemingly solid wall and taps at the surface with her knuckles, holding the candle aloft. There is a hollow noise after a moment, and she runs her fingers along the wainscoting until the hidden entrance slides open.

The candle flickers a little as he can feel the stuffy smelling air enter the room.

“What decade last set foot in here,” he wonders, as she ducks her head, stepping inside and he follows after holding his glass and touching his hand on the wood plank wall, following her light in the tight space.

“It's the first time I opened it. I was just guessing...knocking around. Of course, like the plot from one of Harlan's stories, it's under the stairs.”

“So I've discovered,” he tells her, avoiding a collision between the low angled wall and his head.

The old floor creaks a little below them, and she pauses, causing him to bump into her slightly from behind as he catches up.

“Dead end?” she asks him, her hand on the wall in front of her, she can feel him touch her for only a moment, steadying her with a hand on her waist. “A room, not a passage?”

She smooths over the wall looking for any suggestion of an opening, wiping the film of dust off on her pants when she finds none.

“Look at the flame, Marta,” he mentions over her shoulder, lowering his voice to not disturb it.

“There's a draft.”

She says it quietly, watching the flicker of light, with the sound of his steady breathing at her ear.

XXX

“Last of the emergency rations,” he tells her, offering her a drink from his champagne glass.

“Look,” she says, gesturing back to the secret entrance. “Another mystery solved.”

“A secret tunnel from the hallway, into this bedroom,” he says, finishing his glass then setting it down on the dresser where she put the extinguished candle. “That's no mystery.”

“Maybe a secret passage for a secret midnight snack?” she teases with laughter in her voice, reaching to pull his tie out from its spot inside his shirt, loosening the knot at his neck after she has tugged him closer.

“Indeed,” he says, glancing at his watch, then caressing her face with the pad of his thumb.”Goodness, it's just about midnight.”

Their second kiss is different than the first one in the tunnel. Their hands were too full to be busy there, small and careful so that it only blew out the tiny little flame in her hand.

She's not sure who kissed who first, just glad that it happened. It's not the first time she has thought about kissing Benoit.

Working at the buttons on the front of his shirt, he stops and lets his fingers linger on her sweater, waiting for permission then helps her pull it over her head. Tossing it to the floor, she tugs his shirt off down his arms as far as she can and he lets it fall.

“Must say, I've always found your sweaters very intriguing armor.”

“That sounds so unprofessional, Detective,” she answers, baiting him.

They come together again, bodies tingling with boldness, hands warmed by skin beneath them. She moves him away from the wall, trying not to trip over the rug beneath her feet as he steadies her, hands at her waist again, navigating them around the huge carved wood bed frame between kisses.

“So many layers,” she mock complains, pulling up the edge of the undershirt that remains.

Just before he's about to follow her directive, his eyes catch those of a poor creature who probably never imagined its journey on the plains would end with its head on a wall.

“Eyes everywhere,” he says, pulling the tank over his head and then tossing it over the stuffed head on the wall where it catches on the animal's horns.

Marta laughs and then runs her hands over his arm, making room for him to join her on the wide bed.

“You have undoubtedly,” he says, bending to plant a kiss at her ribs. “Improved the appearance of this house. In every way.”

“It feels less lonely to have you back inside it with me,” she says, her breath hitching as his kisses move lower, down to her stomach, his hand following after.

Ruffling her fingers through his short hair, as he hums in agreement, he kisses a spot at her hip, just above her jeans, and waits until she undoes the buttons herself, wraps her fingers around his wrist to guide his hand along.

Her lips part just as he stretches himself back up alongside her to kiss her neck, her cheek, her mouth, his free hand playing with hair as he pushes it around the curve of her ear.

“I'm not rushing this, am I?” she asks him.

He whispers something low, and sing-song into her ear.

“ _Benoit_!”

XXX

“Lieutenant Elliot?”

When she thinks it over the idea doesn't seem out of place at all. He did make a habit of checking in on her, dropping hints of conversations with Benoit. Always around the subject of the sentencing, but enough to make her realize that something had stuck with her even after he moved on.

“I guess he figured it out first,” Benoit tells her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “At least before I did.”

They're in the room she sleeps in, one of the more modest ones filled with old threadbare quilts and curtains that allow light to get inside, like this soft morning glow reflected off the snow.

Benoit hands her over her mug with coffee, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Thanks,” she tells him, already wishing that they were still under the covers together to ward off the morning chill, even if the bed is a bit small for that. Instead, he let her sleep in, then brought her coffee. She lifts her mug. “And here's to Lieutenant Elliot.”

He mulls the idea over some more. “I wonder what gave me away?”

“He told me that you were at the sentencing. He used the word 'twitterpated'? Which wasn't something I had heard before.”

“Twitterpated,” he repeats, amused. “I guess that's accurate as all get out. I just couldn't tolerate the mistruths flowing like a stream from that lawyer's mouth.”

“Ah,” she says, imagining for a moment his outrage and Lt. Elliot taking mental notes. “And you have another...case...already?” she asks, pulling her knees up to her chest under the covers.

“I did not think after the case was solved, that there would be any reason you might want me to stay.”

“I'm glad you changed your mind then,” she tells him, setting her coffee cup on the nightstand. “I've just been on my tiptoes since...all of this. It's been _exhausting_. Not that this was just...you know,” she says, catching his fingers with her hand.

“Even if it was, I would be _flattered_ ,” he tells her. “To be of help in any way-”

“I could use a helping hand. Or two of them to be exact,” she tells him, locking eyes with him, swallowing for a moment. “Stay for the holiday? Or, do you have somewhere-?”

“No,” he tells her, pressing his lips to her forehead. “And, these hands can make a pretty mean crepe,” he promises, offering them to her.

“I would love to eat your crepes,” she replies earnestly, taking his hands.

“You're quite the sleuth yourself, Watson,” he adds, pulling her to her feet. “Do you feel like taking on a new case?”

“Of course! But first, we still have more of the house to explore.”


End file.
